Hell, I’m not going to flirt with anyone.

  I can behave.

  That afternoon when Jackson takes over the guard detail outside the hotel, holding open the door for my limo, I practice. I give the big man a clap on the shoulder, slide into the back seat, and say, “And how the hell are you this morning?”

  There. That’s friendly.

  As he joins me in my ride, he tips his forehead to the sun, high in the sky. “You mean this afternoon.”

  Damn, he is good. He slides right back into giving me a hard time, and I love it. “I say morning. You say afternoon. Tomato, tomahto.”

  “Let’s call the whole thing off,” he says dryly as the limo pulls out of the portico.

  “Are you trying to impress me with your musical knowledge?” I ask, giving myself a virtual pat on the back. I’m sixty seconds in, and I’m earning my no-flirt trophy with panache.

  “Is that all it takes? Just rattling off a commonly known set of lyrics? I had no idea you were that easy.”

  I suck in a breath, doing my best to resist, but that’s some low-hanging fruit. And I need to pluck it. “I think you absolutely know how easy I am.”

  Jackson rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, and stares out the window.

  And . . . maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

  Did I need to remind the guy that I’m a hound dog? Might as well have howled at the moon. Humped a stuffed alligator like my brother’s horny little Chihuahua does.

  Easy.

  That’s not really a compliment to the person you were easy with.

  Only one way to course correct. Make a joke. “Just kidding, J-man. Nothing easy about me. I’m hard as a rock,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows, and that’s so much better.

  Not.

  But I can right this ship.

  I stretch out my legs in front of me. “Anyway, I slept like the dead last night. Didn’t drag my ass out of bed till eleven, and it was beautiful. How about you?”

  “I was up early.” His tone is crisp, businesslike. But that’s par for the course with Captain Stoic.

  Or should I call him Captain Mostly Stoic? Given that he caved last night with that bone-melting kiss.

  “I bet you were. I bet you already did twenty workouts and mastered some new phrases in Spanish. Probably learned to make one of those fold-up boats that slides inside a bottle,” I say, rattling off the man’s hobbies as the car cruises along the Strip.

  Jackson says something to me in Spanish. I have no clue what he said, but that’s cool. I still dig his language skills. “See? You act like I don’t pay attention. But I do. I knew you were studying Spanish.”

  “We were in Madrid together for one of your shows,” he says, a slight laugh in his voice. “I ordered for you at a café when you needed a morning pick-me-up.”

  “And I ordered for us in Paris,” I point out, since I can hold my own with the French language, merci beaucoup. “And the salade Niçoise was epic, along with the wine.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink on the job.”

  “I’m well aware. Since I pay attention. And I paid attention, too, when you mentioned you were studying Spanish, wanting to know more of the language.”

  He scrubs a hand across the back of his neck, pressing into his skin, something he does when he’s stressed. “It’s good for the job. To know more languages. And yes, we’ve talked about it.”

  “And I remembered. See? That’s impressive.”

  He lifts his face, but his hand is still working his neck. “Glad you’re impressed by yourself.”

  “And I’m impressed by you knowing song lyrics,” I say, slapping Jackson’s thigh. Oops. Guess I’m not earning all the awards today. But that thigh. It’s like a mass of muscle, and I want to glide my hand up and down it.

  In fact, I’d like to kneel between those strong legs, undo his zipper, take him in my mouth, and feel those muscles under my palms as I suck him off.

  Maybe that’d make him feel better.

  But resistance is the name of my game.

  Trouble is, the name of his game seems to be tension. He lets go of his neck, then stretches it back and forth.

  It cracks. That sound worries me.

  I can relieve that tension. I want to relieve it.

  I reach across the back of the limo. My fingers have a mind of their own, and they travel up the back of his neck.

  He’s still for a second, then his eyes float closed and his lips part. A sexy breath escapes them.

  Even sexier is the faintest groan that comes when I run my fingers into his hair, short and neat and so damn soft.

  This is exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

  And there are reasons I need to stop.

  But Jackson looks like he’s about to melt. He looks like he needs my hand, my fingers, my touch.

  So I let him, let us, exist in this space where touch isn’t a violation of duty, where it doesn’t mess with your head. Where it only makes you feel good. My fingers travel up the back of his neck, coasting through his hair. He leans back against my hand, like he’s savoring the touch.

  I slide my thumb down his neck, pushing, kneading. He breathes out hard, evenly. His muscles visibly relax as I rub.

  He murmurs, something that maybe sounds like “So good.”

  I want to pump a fist, to kiss the sky. I did that. I made him feel better. Made him feel good again.

  I dig my thumb and fingers in, rubbing and working out the knots, and he seems to savor every second of the attention. I can’t help it—my eyes drift down to his pants.

  To the thick ridge, so visible.

  Seems his dick savors the attention too.

  I stifle a groan as I stare at the outline of his cock.

  I want it, and him.

  Want to ride it, want to have it.

  I’m tempted, so damn tempted, to crawl across his lap, straddle him, and grind against his hard-on.

  And while I’m doing that, I’d love to rope my hands through his hair again and kiss away whatever tension resides in him—the tension that seems to disappear when I touch him like this.

  But Jackson’s words from last night echo.

  My promise to myself does too.

  I let my hand fall, resting briefly against his shoulder before I let go.

  His eyes open slowly. He swallows, and I stare at his throat, at his Adam’s apple bobbing, like he’s trying to solve a problem.

  The problem of me.

  But I can fix it for both of us.

  I have to.

  “Did you sleep well?” I ask, doing my best to return to the colleague-banter volley.

  “Yes.” He shifts instantly, away from the physical, like the last few minutes didn’t even happen.

  “Me too. I did some yoga, some Pilates in the morning. I feel like a brand-new man today. Ready to tackle any challenge that the world is going to throw at me.”

  “What sort of challenges do you think the world is going to throw at you?”

  “Anything. Everything. The world is tossing them in my direction, and I’m going to handle all of them, J. And mostly, I want you to know the biggest challenge I’m going to handle,” I say, since this is serious.

  No messing around here.

  No matter how much I want this man, I need to honor his lines.

  I want him to know I respect his boundaries.

  “What’s that?”

  “The biggest challenge is that I need to resist you. And I plan on it. I’m going to resist the hell out of you. I am going to earn myself all the awards ever in the history of resisting the sexiest bodyguard in the world.”

  He laughs, loud and deep, and that shifts the mood once more. Turns it light again, the sensuality washed away with a chuckle. “That’s good to know.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He meets my gaze, his eyes showing a hint of regret. Like maybe he doesn’t want me to resist him. Maybe not after the way I just touched him, like he needed some softness, some tenderness.

  But in a split second, that regret is erased from his irises.

  He is all certain, and—as an adult who is trying desperately to adult—I’m glad I’m resisting him.

  “Yes, Stone, it’s very good to know,” he adds.

  “And you know why I’m going to do it?” I ask, because I need the reminder too.

  His brow knits. “Because I work for you?”

  “Because you work for me. Because I respect you. And because I want to show you my skills,” I say, laying out my reasons.

  “You want to show off by resisting me?”

  I answer from the heart. “That’s what you were getting at last night when you talked about the private party. You think I’m easy. You think I touch anyone. And you don’t like that. You were jealous at the thought of me touching someone else.”

  Jackson shakes his head, his jaw tightening, his lips forming a straight line. He glances toward the front of the car, even though there’s a soundproof screen between us and the driver.

  “We don’t need to talk about this.”

  “But we do. Because I think that’s part of the issue for you. You don’t like the fact that I’m a free spirit.”

  His answer is hard, bitten with tension as he gestures from him to me. “That has nothing to do with this.”

  “You say that. But it kind of does. And I want to prove something to you. I want to prove to you that I don’t just throw myself at anybody.”

  Jackson lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Why do you want to prove that to me?”

  I look hard at him, at this stunning man by my side. I could give him a million lines. I could tell him he’s sexier than anyone I’ve ever known.

  But that doesn’t matter to him. He won’t care about that. The things that matter to Jackson go deeper than sex, deeper than looks. That’s why I want to impress him with the man I can be. I don’t know what the future holds with Jackson and me. Don’t know if there’s a chance for anything more with him. But for now, I need to show him and myself that there’s more to me.

  “You’re important to me. So I made a bet with myself. To resist you and everyone else.”

  He laughs. “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  But maybe this is something I need to prove to myself.

  Not only that I can resist him, but that I can resist sex.

  So that’s what I do for the entire next month.

  8

  Jackson

  A month on the East Coast is good for me. Stone plays shows in Miami, Orlando, Atlanta, Raleigh, DC, and New York, and I do my job.

  I make sure screaming fans don’t grab his clothes or steal his phone. I protect him from the wild onslaught of groupies who want to touch his arm or slide a hand through his hair.

  Fabian used to say my job was risky too, but guarding celebrities is nothing compared to the daredevil risks he took for clicks on social media.

  Hell, my job is safer than a firefighter’s. Much less risky than the Marines. My work involves using my brain more than my body.

  It involves eyesight and instinct.

  And tonight it involves Portland, Maine, the last leg of this brief East Coast stint.

  That’s my favorite stop, since I can escape to see my family. On my night off, I stay with them and take my mom, dad, and two sisters out to dinner. The next morning, I drive Bethany to school. She’s an early bird like me, so she’s not due in class for thirty more minutes, which means we have some time.

  “I insist on coffee and gossip,” she tells me, and points to her favorite coffee shop on the way there.

  I can’t deny her. I never have been able to—not since she was a baby and I was the fourteen-year-old kid already enchanted with his little sister.

  Now, with her pink-tipped hair and pierced nose, she looks every bit the disgruntled teen.

  But she’s not.

  She’s a sweetheart. Inside the shop, she orders a London Fog, and a coffee for me.

  We grab a table in the corner.

  I cast my gaze around the shop, a habit I won’t break. “Are you going to tell me about all the boys at school now that Mom and Dad aren’t around? I want the deets.”

  Her jaw drops. “Boys? What boys?” she asks, all cheeky and mock-innocent.

  I wiggle my fingers. “Serve it up. I know how boys are.”

  “Do you now?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, they want to get laid. And if you want that too, more power to you. But use a condom and be sure to give your consent, K?”

  Her face flushes as pink as her hair. “Yes, Mr. Sex-Positive Daddy.”

  “Please. Dad never talked about sex.”

  “But Mom did,” she points out.

  “Thank God for that,” I say. My firefighter dad was and is cool about all things when it comes to sexuality, but discussing condoms made him tongue-tied. Mom, being a guidance counselor, had no such issues. Once she knew I preferred guys, she not only broke out the banana to show me how to put on a condom, she also whipped out her whiteboard and proceeded to list the positions that were supposedly best for gay sex first-timers.

  That wasn’t weird at all.

  “Anyway, there’s no one,” Bethany says. “The guys at my school don’t interest me. I want someone creative, someone artistic.”

  “Someone in the theater?” I ask as I take a drink of my morning joe.

  “Yes. Like me,” she says. “Someone who can appreciate Rent.”

  “You better get me tickets when you hit the stage as Maureen. I’m going to come back to see it next month.”

  “You better show up.”

  I scoff. “I always do.”

  She smiles softly. “You do.” She lifts her cup, takes a sip, then clears her throat.

  Uh-oh. I know what’s coming.

  The barrage of questions.

  “And what about you, Jackson? Have you met anyone?”

  “Is this where we deep-dive into my relationships?”

  Her hazel eyes are as intense as her tone. “Yes. It is. You know I like the relationship convos as much as you do.”

  I give her a pointed look, then a true answer. “I don’t have time for a partner. I’m busy with work.”

  “So you have no interest in anybody?”

  “I’m not a player,” I say, deflecting her question. Otherwise, my mind will linger on Stone.

  How ridiculous is my situation? The bodyguard who has it bad for the superstar he protects. Pretty sure that’s a Hollywood storyline starring heartbreak.

  Or the punchline to a joke.

  “I am well aware that you’re not a player. But what I want to know is . . . do you miss him still?”

  I wait for the pinching in my heart. For the pain that used to shoot through me. Neither happens. Neither has happened in some time.

  Fabian died nearly two years ago, and I’ve moved on. There’s no other way to live. You do what you have to do to survive.

  “It’s been a while. And you know what it was like right after,” I say quietly. Like if I say it louder, the volume might snap me back to the hell of losing the person I loved—the person I loved despite his bad decisions.

  She reaches for me, setting a hand on my arm. “I know, Jackson. I remember. My heart still hurts for you.”

  I give a shrug, a little helpless. But that was the past. “I’m okay. And to answer your question, I don’t miss him. I miss the good parts though. I don’t miss the arguments. And I definitely don’t miss begging him to stop.”

  Her eyes are fierce as she pins me with wisdom beyond her years. “You tried to get him to stop. That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

  Hell, did it ever hurt when the cops knocked on my door that afternoon, telling me that Fabian died doing a stunt on his bike that his friends filmed for his YouTube channel. The moment the officer asked, Are you the emergency contact for Fabian Santos? I knew that the next words out of his mouth would be I’m sorry to inform you . . .

  I shove that thought away. Some memories will always ache even if the missing stops.

  “Listen, it’s all good. I’m focused on work. I’m fine with that. It keeps me busy.” I finish with a smile I mostly feel. I do love my work. My job energizes me. It gives me purpose.

  Crush on my boss aside.

  “I know, but I worry about you. You were happy. I want to see you happy again, Jackson. You like being with someone.”

  My heart squeezes at the truth in that, at her awareness of who I am. But even if I used to lean toward the relationship side of the romance fence, that doesn’t mean I want to hang out there now. I may no longer hurt, but I don’t want to open myself up to more pain. When my partner died, something broke inside me that I don’t want to repair—the piece of me that liked commitment, connection, partnership.

  “Right now, I like not being with someone,” I say, speaking the full truth.

  “Maybe someday you’ll want the opposite.”

  “Maybe someday you won’t be a sassy wiseass,” I say.

  “Doubtful.” Her grin is playful, and so damn cute that I snap a picture of it.

  “How about a shot of both of us?” I ask.

  “Because pics don’t exist if you’re not in them?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She joins me on my side of the table, smushes her face next to mine, and does some kind of hang-ten gesture that probably isn’t a hang-ten thing at all, but what the hell do I know?

  The pic makes me happy, and I save it to my photos. If I’ve learned anything since Fabian’s death, it’s that you need to grab your happy while you can.

  After I put the image in a folder, my phone pings with an email, and I check it quickly. Tension radiates through me as I read the email from the credit card company, a reminder of the money I owe for the choices Fabian made.

  The ones he made without me.

  “Everything okay?” Bethany asks.

  Clutching my phone, I give her a shrug. “Stupid credit card company wanting to collect on a stupid bill for a stupid motorcycle.”

  “Sorry, Jackson,” she says. “Debt sucks.”

  I’m sorry too, but for entirely different reasons. Because finding out a few weeks after he died that he’d used our card to finance his bike, the mangled one that died with him, rubbed salt into my fresh wound. I’d not only lost the man I loved, but I’d lost him to the thing I’d begged him to stop doing, and he’d gone behind my back to do it. Stunts for prize money. Crazy, reckless, dangerous stunts.